


Behind Blue Eyes

by TheNightComesDown



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, The Who AU, The Who Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: As you prepare to host a dinner party in honour of the release of The Who's new album, your boyfriend John's best friend, Pete Townshend, kisses you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really getting into the classic rock scene lately, so after months of writing about the guys from Queen, here's a little something about The Who.

A loud knock came at the door, momentarily interrupting your focus on setting the table for dinner. Your guests weren’t expected for another hour or so, but you figured that someone had decided to be extra punctual in order to make up for their chronic lateness.

“Come in!” you hollered towards the door. The handle turned, and in came Pete, the guitarist of your boyfriend’s band. He clutched an umbrella in one hand, still dripping from his time out in the rain. Glancing out the window, you frowned at the gloomy London sky; it had been pouring for nearly a week straight without any sign of stopping. 

“Afternoon, Y/N,” Pete greeted you, stepping out of his scuffed penny loafers and depositing them on the shoe rack beside the door. 

“Just hang your umbrella up—” 

“On the hook behind the door,” Pete finished for you. “Don’t worry, I know.” You held your hands up in a quick apology; sometimes it slipped your mind that Pete had been coming to the flat to see John since long before you moved in. He swung the door shut, closing it with a socked foot, and came to lean on the back of the chair at the head of the table. 

“You’re quite early,” you noted, looking up from the other end of the table. Pete reached over the chair and adjusted the cloth napkin you’d folded atop one of the plates, which was slightly crooked. 

“Is that allowed?” he inquired, observing you with tired eyes. Pete looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, but his outfit tried to convey otherwise. Dressed in dark denim trousers, a cream-coloured roll-neck jumper and a smart black blazer, he looked prim and proper for the dinner party you’d insisted on having in celebration of their latest album release. 

“Of course it is,” you replied, looking up sharply. “You know you’re always welcome here.” As John’s closest friend, Pete was often curled up on your sofa with a book, or engaged in a heated discussion with your boyfriend over tour logistics at the table. The guest room was almost exclusively reserved for him, and he used it often, especially after the boys had put away a significant number of drinks after a gig in town. 

Satisfied with the way you’d set things up, you stepped back into the kitchen to check on the chicken and lemon potatoes roasting in the oven. Pete followed, stopping at the counter when he saw the plate of hors d’oeurves you’d prepared: crackers stacked with various meats, cheeses and jams. Thinking your attention was on the oven, he reached out and popped one into his mouth. 

“Hey, I saw that,” you warned, peeking at him over your shoulder. “Hands in your pockets, Townshend.” He stopped chewing, glancing about as though he hadn’t any idea what you were talking about. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, but you turned back to the oven, satisfied that he wouldn’t do it again. 

“Anything I can help with, Y/N?” he asked, chewing up the prosciutto and jam cracker he’d snatched. You closed the oven and adjusted your apron, flattening it over your knee-length skirt. Pressing your lips together thoughtfully, you considered what else there was left to do before the party. 

“You could reach up into the cupboard there and bring down some wine glasses,” you suggested, pointing at the top shelf of the corner cupboard. Pete nodded and set to it, putting his height to good use. 

“Red or white?” he asked, comparing the sizes of the glasses he’d retrieved. 

“John bought something stupid expensive,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Take a guess.” Pete replaced the white wine glass and pulled down several more tall, wide glasses from the shelf. He knew his friend well; John had a tendency to spend more than he ought on a bottle of red, just because he could. The rest of you preferred something much sweeter, or much harder, but since you and John were hosting, everyone else would keep their thoughts to themselves on the matter (at least until Keith brought out a flask after dessert). 

“How’s your week been?” Pete wondered aloud, wandering out into the dining room to set the glasses beside each plate. “John mentioned that things’ve been rather busy at the hospital.” 

“We’ll get past it,” you shrugged nonchalantly, filling a pitcher of water at the tap. It had been at least an hour since you’d thought about work, and you were slightly annoyed by the reminder. “Government’s meddling with funding again, putting their noses in places they ought not to. Unless MPs start coming into the hospitals and seeing what the real issues are, I’m of the opinion that they should be taking direction from those of us on the front lines, doing the _real_ work.” Pete had returned and was leaned against the doorframe, listening to you intently. 

“I’ve got loads of respect for nurses like you,” he hummed, his eyes following you as you crossed the kitchen towards the icebox. “I certainly could never take care of sick people day in and day out.” 

“It takes a certain kind of person,” you acknowledged with a small grin, “as well as a strong constitution and a poor sense of smell.” Pete chuckled at your remark, amused. 

“When’s John due to be home?” he asked, peering down at his wristwatch. After dropping a few ice cubes into the pitcher of water, you set it in the fridge to continue cooling. You checked the clock on the kitchen wall, which read 4:40; John had promised his errand would be short, but it appeared to be taking longer than he’d planned. 

“By 5:00, I’m sure,” you estimated, leaning against the counter. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, content to enjoy the sound of a smooth jazz record playing on the turntable in the sitting room. You glanced around the room, looking to see if anything could be put away while you waited, but saw nothing. When your eyes flickered back to Pete, you noticed that his gaze, icy blue, was locked on you. 

Much to your surprise, your stomach fluttered as you took in the sight of his lean, lanky body in the kitchen doorway. Pete’s hair, which had always been a lovely dark brown, was finally growing out. For the years you’d known him, his fringe had been chopped severely across his forehead, and the rest of it kept trimmed back. Now, it was beginning to curl out at the ends, framing his face softly. He was clean-shaven, and his jaw had a nice curve to it, something you hadn’t noticed before – or had you? 

After a moment of hesitation, Pete crossed the kitchen toward you. As soon as he left his place in the doorway, you knew what was going to happen, but made no effort to stop it. _Why didn’t you?_ you would wonder later. He stopped inches from you and reached towards you, slipping one hand behind your neck and the other around your waist. He was confident, never wavering from his intention, even though he knew this to be a risky move. 

The moment Pete’s lips met yours, you were swept away in the heat of the moment. His nose bumped awkwardly against yours, but that was no matter. His hand tangled in your hair, and he pulled you against him, desperate to be close to you. Against your better judgement, you grasped at his jumper, leaning into the kiss. You sucked in a sharp breath as Pete’s tongue traced along your bottom lip, and as fast as this had all started, it ended. 

“Pete, stop,” you gasped, shrinking away from him. He stepped back, his eyes wide with surprise. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing a hand to his mouth. You felt yourself begin to tremble, but weren’t sure if it was because of fear, or adrenaline, or something else. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Y/N, I—” 

“Please excuse me,” you interjected, hurrying past him towards the toilet on the other side of the flat. As soon as you were alone with the door closed behind you, you let out an anguished sob. What the bloody hell had just happened? 

Glancing in the mirror above the sink, you saw the look of shock in your eyes. Thankfully, you had thought earlier that there was still plenty of time before the dinner began to apply your lipstick, so the only evidence of what had happened between you and Pete was your memory of the moment. You brushed your fingers through your hair, hoping that it was still in good shape. A knock came at the door a minute later, and you felt your pulse quicken. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry,” Pete choked out, his voice thick. “Fuck, please open the door. I need to…I’m so sorry.” Despite the voice at the back of your head telling you to ignore him, you reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand. 

Pete stood in the hall, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His expression was one of distress, as if the entire situation hadn’t been his fault. He opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it closed again when the front door opened, announcing John’s arrival. 

“Not a word,” you hissed, your voice deadly serious. Pete swallowed hard and nodded, moving back in the hall as you stormed past him. John kicked off his shoes and waltzed into the kitchen, frowning when he saw that you weren’t there. 

“Y/N,” he called out, “where are you?” 

“Right here,” you announced, plastering a smile on your face. John held a slightly soggy brown paper bag in his arms, containing a variety of vegetables you’d asked him to pick up. His hair was wet from the rain, and his face was peppered with droplets of water he’d neglected to wipe away. 

“Hello, love,” he smiled, leaning down to kiss you. Your lips felt as if they were burning; surely if John kissed you, he’d instantly know what had happened. Turning your face to the left, his kiss landed on your rosy cheek. His eyebrows knit together slightly when he pulled back, but he shrugged the incident off; a kiss on the cheek was all well and good, he supposed. 

“Did you find everything?” you inquired brightly, reaching up to clear a few drops of rain that had clung to his sideburns. He shook his head like a dog stepping out of a bath, sprinkling you with water. Giggling for real now, you scrunched your nose with mock displeasure; he knew this would make you smile. 

“Sure did,” he told you, setting the bag down on the counter. “See, I _can_ get groceries without help.” 

“I never said you couldn’t,” you protested indignantly. “I only said that sometimes, you come back with things that weren’t on the list, and without some things that were on the list.” 

“Ah,” he nodded, acknowledging the truth in the statement. “Well, sometimes I’d rather buy something delicious than kale, that’s all.” You laughed at his explanation, appreciating the honesty. If nothing else, John always admitted his faults. 

“Go change into something less wet while I cut these vegetables up,” you instructed, shooing him out of the kitchen. “Try that blue button-up, it’ll bring out your eyes.” He emitted a low hum in affirmation, allowing you to pass and start pulling things from the grocery bag. Before leaving the kitchen, however, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and held you tightly. 

“I love you,” he murmured, placing a soft kiss on your neck below the corner of your jaw. “Thank you for putting this all together. I’m sure it’ll be lovely, until Keith gets smashed.” Your body tensed in his arms, but the longer he held you, the more you were able to relax. 

“I love you, too,” you replied, resting your head against his. John released you to your work, and walked out of the kitchen, whistling a tune he’d had in his head all week. He slowed as he passed the door, noticing the loafers on the shoe rack. 

“Are these Pete’s shoes, love?” 

“Yes, he’s just in the toilet, I think,” you called back, your voice wavering slightly. “Came early to make up for being late last time.” John made some noise in response before continuing on into the bedroom. 

The vegetables were a welcome distraction, and you allowed yourself to be completely absorbed in the process of cutting them up into bite-sized pieces. In fact, you barely heard the boys’ voices as they walked into the kitchen together, even when the conversation was directed at you. John tapped your shoulder when you didn’t answer his question, making you jump. 

“Shit, you scared me,” you huffed, setting the knife down on the cutting board. John apologized with an affectionate squeeze of your shoulder, and repeated himself. 

“Does this look alright?” he inquired, gesturing towards his outfit. “Pete says I look like a tosser, but I don’t trust the opinion of a grown man in a roll-neck jumper.” You turned and looked your boyfriend up and down; he had layered an open waistcoat over his collared shirt, which was tucked neatly into his trousers. He certainly cleaned up well, you thought to yourself. 

“Looks lovely, darling,” you replied, tilting your chin upwards to receive a kiss, this time accepting it the good, old-fashioned way. “I’m sure even Roger will be jealous.” 

Pete stared at you over John’s shoulder, his mouth set in a grim line. It was quite obvious to you that he now regretted his earlier indiscretion. Without a doubt, you knew he wouldn’t say anything to John, and neither would you. As much as John loved Pete, having been friends since they were 12 years old, you doubted he’d appreciate him making a move on his girlfriend. 

The door swung open to admit Keith, Roger, and their partners. From the sound of it, Keith was already halfway to pissed, much to the surprise of absolutely no one. You tilted your head towards the door, encouraging John to go supervise, lest his friend decided to go off on the new sofa you’d bought less than two weeks before. Pete remained in the kitchen, loitering near the doorway. You turned back to your task, continuing to slice vegetables. 

“Y/N,” he said softly, appearing beside you. “I just need to say that I’m terribly sorry, and that it won’t happen again. I…I overstepped, and I hurt you by doing so. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I needed to apologize anyways.” You stayed quiet, not daring to look up at him for fear you would start to cry. 

“Please go,” you finally managed to squeak out. “I need a moment.” Pete nodded miserably, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. He wandered out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, leaving you to finish cutting the last section of a cucumber. When you knew you were alone, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead hard against the cupboard. 

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ your mind screamed. _He kissed me and I liked it. He kissed me and I wanted more. He kissed me and he’s my boyfriend’s best mate._ As your mind rambled on, you pulled a glass serving plate down from the cupboard and arranged the vegetables in a pretty pattern, placing a small bowl of homemade cream cheese spinach dip in the centre, which you retrieved from the fridge. 

As you’d hoped, the rest of the evening went off without a hitch. Keith stayed relatively sober, Roger and his wife didn’t argue at the table, and John’s wine turned out to be better than any of you had expected. Both you and Pete remained relatively quiet, but others picked up the conversation, chatting about the album release and the impending tour, which was set to begin in a few months. 

When everyone had gone home for the night, and the dishes had been dealt with, John scooped you up and carried you, giggling in his arms, to bed. Once you’d turned the lights out, the two of you talked in the dark for nearly half an hour. 

“You’re sure everything is alright?” he asked, holding you against his chest. He tucked the blankets up over your shoulders to keep you warm, and kissed the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you promised. “Just thinking about the tour, and how lonely I’ll be with you gone.” This was true in part; it had been on your mind all evening. 

John had nodded off shortly after, due in part to the particularly large glasses of wine he’d had with dinner. After a while, you started to wish you’d drunk as much as he had; every time you tried to close your eyes, you remembered the warmth of Pete’s mouth on yours, the tug of his hand in your hair. It was maddening how persistent these thoughts were. 

_I love John, and I love our life together,_ you reassured yourself. _I’m just confused because it was sudden and unexpected._ Eventually, you drifted into an uneasy sleep. Your only consolation was that Pete was likely having the same problem. 

* * * * * 

_Fucking hell,_ Pete’s mind howled as he drove from John and Y/N’s flat to his own place. _How could you do this, you stupid fucking idiot?_

It was a mercy that he wasn’t pulled over, going the speed he was. A drive that should have taken 25 minutes took less than 15. When he made it into his flat, he slammed the door hard, locking it behind him as if that would keep his feelings at bay. 

_You should have told her how you felt years ago, Pete,_ his mind continued to shout at him as he slipped between the sheets of his bed. _You just had to let things between her and John get serious, though, didn’t you? Now she hates you, John will use your guts as bass strings when he finds out that you kissed her, and you’ll never get to feel the way you felt with her in your arms again._

Pete lay with his eyes closed for over an hour, but sleep refused to come to him. Eventually, he went to the bathroom and fished a bottle of sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet. His doctor had prescribed them to him for insomnia, but had cautioned against regular use, saying that he could seriously fuck up his sleep pattern if he misused them. Well, the man hadn’t used such colourful words, but that was the gist of it. 

After another half hour, Pete was out cold, his sleep devoid even of dreams. He would awake late the next afternoon with a wicked hangover, and at that time, would recall the other warning his doctor had given about the sleeping meds: don’t take them with alcohol, it increases their effect. He would revel in the pain, though, in the pounding of his head, because in his mind, he _deserved_ this, after what he’d done the day before. 

As much as he blamed himself, though, one niggling thought, or rather, one distinct memory, remained: he’d started things in the kitchen that afternoon, but Y/N had pulled him closer, had deepened the kiss, had let out a sigh of relief against his lips. As much has he had wanted it to start, she hadn’t wanted it to end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When things go south at home, you take shelter with the only person you know you can trust.

Closing the door to your flat as quietly as possible, you slunk into the sitting room, where you deposited your work bag and car keys on the coffee table. Most of the lights were off; John must have gone to bed already. Midnight was a bit early for a Friday night, you thought, but shrugged it off. You had just finished a nearly 16-hour shift, as you’d had to cover for a co-worker who had called in sick. Bringing a viral or bacterial infection into the hospital and powering through your illness could literally mean life or death for an immune-deficient patient, and your co-worker made the right choice by asking you to cover for her – but you were still exhausted.

As you trudged down the hall to your bedroom, you noticed that the sole sliver of light you’d seen from the sitting room was emanating from beneath the bedroom door. Maybe John had decided to read for a few minutes before he called it a night? You gently pushed the door open, slowly so as to avoid making the hinges squeak as they often did. To your surprise, John was stretched out on top of the blankets, fast asleep, but sitting up beside him, hands around his knees, was your boyfriend’s bandmate, Keith Moon. 

“Keith?” you whispered softly, drawing his attention, which was focused on picking at the ends of his nails and ripping them off. “What’s going on?” Keith’s eyes flickered up to meet yours; his pupils were blown wide, almost flooding out the lovely brown of his irises. He was high on their drug of choice, cocaine, and in all likelihood, John was, too. But why was one wide awake, and the other out cold? In a panic, you hurried to John’s side and pressed two fingers to the artery in his neck; to your relief, his pulse was normal. Your next concern was his breathing, but once you’d watched his chest rise and fall for a while, you felt comfortable that he hadn’t overdosed. 

“S’wrong, Y/N?” Keith asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. When he pulled his hand away, he noticed a spot of blood on his skin, which he promptly wiped off on your duvet cover. Annoyed and a little grossed out, you wrinkled your nose and passed him a tissue from the box on John’s bedside table. His hand trembled as he reached out to grab it from you; it took a moment of careful observation for you to realize that his entire body was shaking. 

“Why is John asleep?” you wondered, trying to keep your tone even. “Did he take something different than you?” Keith shook his head, pausing to shove the tissue into his left nostril. He winced as it went in, scraping the raw walls of his nose, which were always somewhat damaged because of his regular cocaine use. Having watched Keith make more and more bad decisions in terms of drugs over the last 2 years, you were grateful that, for now at least, John’s coke habit only reared its head when he was stressed. It appeared that tonight was one of those occasions. 

“I had some more ‘bout 10 minutes ago,” Keith explained, his tongue running a mile a minute. This, along with a small straw and a bit of white powder on the bedside table beside Keith ( _your_ bedside table), were good indicators that they had indeed been using cocaine. “We was bored today, Y/N,” he complained, “and John said you’d be working.” Really, John had known you’d be home late, and had decided to get fucked up while you were out rather than when you would be home to notice it. If Keith hadn’t been curled up on your side of the bed, you might have gone to sleep without checking on your boyfriend. 

“You need to slow down, love,” you cautioned. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep at this rate.” Keith ignored your comment, choosing instead to continue picking at his nails. With a sigh, you kissed John’s forehead and left the room, deciding to sleep in the guest bedroom for the night. If both men were breathing and responsive, they would still be that way in the morning, you decided. 

To your dismay, however, someone was already using the guest bed. You flicked on the light switch to find a woman – dressed in a pair of lacy knickers and a man’s blue collared shirt – passed out on the bed. Your vision went red as you noticed a dark purple bruise on her neck; it had been a trademark of John’s in the early days of your relationship to leave love bites on your skin when he was feeling particularly randy. _She could very well be a friend of Keith’s_ , you reasoned; _John had never done something like this before._

“For fuck’s sake,” you sighed, snapping the light off. “Can’t sleep in my own home.” You ignored the building feeling of rage in your chest, choosing instead to collect your things from the coffee table and leave the flat. It was past midnight, and there was only one place for you to go. 

* * * * * 

Pete’s flat was located on the top floor of a building directly beside a professional recording studio, which made it easier for him to create a ruckus in his tiny home studio without the neighbours making noise complaints. You hammered your fist against his door, hoping he would actually hear you. He worked late into the night on his demos, you knew, so it was possible he couldn’t hear you. After half a minute, you began to worry; what if he didn’t answer the door? 

Just then, the door swung open to reveal your boyfriend’s best mate, dressed in a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and a ratty old jumper from his days at Ealing College. If Pete was surprised to see you outside his door after midnight, his expression didn’t show it. Stepping back to allow you in, he ran a hand through his hair and yawned; he still had over an hour of work to do, but was as tired as you. 

“Long day?” you inquired, dropping your bag on the floor outside the coat cupboard. He grunted vaguely in reply, shrugging as though he hadn’t been holed up in his studio since 8:00 that morning. 

“I’m sure yours was longer,” he murmured, eying your scrubs. “Getting paid overtime, I hope?” You nodded, kicking your shoes off and placing them beside your bag. With a sigh of frustration, you realized that you’d forgotten to bring extra clothes from your place; you’d just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. 

“Would you mind terribly if I stayed the night?” you asked, turning towards him. Something you couldn’t quite place flickered across Pete’s face, but he didn’t hesitate to tell you that you were welcome to stay as long as you liked. He stepped into his kitchen and tossed you an apple, which you bit into immediately; you were practically starving. 

“There’re some leftovers in the fridge, if you wanted to heat them up,” he told you, noting the loud growl your stomach was making. “Chicken curry is in the green container, rice is in the blue one.” While you rifled around in the fridge, he grabbed a plate from the cupboard and set a fork beside it on the counter. After locating the containers he’d indicated, you also pulled out two bottles of Beck’s, wanting something cold to pair with your dinner. Pete opened both with the bottle opener he’d retrieved from the drawer at his hip, setting one back down for you and taking a long swig of the other. 

“Keith and John had a _friend_ over tonight,” you announced, spooning some rice out onto your plate. “I’ll make sure the sheets get washed so you’ll have a clean bed the next time you come over.” Pete observed you carefully, noticing the tension in your jaw; something serious must have happened, he realized. 

“John’s probably going to need that bed more than I will,” he countered, hoping you would take his comment as a bit of a joke. You tilted your head to one side, considering his words; he probably wasn’t wrong. John would have hell to pay for getting high and bringing some slag home with him. At this point, you weren’t certain that it hadn’t been Keith who’d invited her over, but based on the hickey you’d seen, it was more likely to have been John, in your mind. 

“Could I borrow a shirt to sleep in?” you queried, glancing up to meet Pete’s tired gaze. He nodded, tipping his head towards his bedroom, an invitation for you to take anything you wanted. Because Pete lived much closer to your workplace than John, you’d spent a number of nights on the futon he used to own. 

“Sleep in my bed, and I’ll take the sofa,” he offered. You opened your mouth to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it. “You’ve just come off a long shift, Y/N. You need a soft mattress more than I do, trust me.” The microwave beeped, encouraging you to retrieve your steaming plate of curry and rice from within. Pete dumped the remaining contents of both containers onto another plate, having felt the rumbling of his own stomach. He’d neglected to eat dinner earlier, choosing instead to power through his current project. 

“It’s been quite a while since I was here,” you commented, taking a seat on the plush leather sofa in Pete’s sitting room. He joined you, leaning against the arm of the sofa while he waited for his food to reheat. “Is this a new rug?” Pete nodded, yawning once again. 

“Got it from…somewhere,” he frowned, rubbing his socked foot against the patterned carpet. “Someplace we toured in America; can’t remember exactly where.” 

“It’s nice,” you complimented. You shovelled a bite of curry and rice into your mouth, releasing a contented moan when you tasted it. Pete had always been a decent cook, but this was delicious. He watched you as you continued to scarf down your dinner, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when you flashed him an appreciative thumbs-up. 

Once he’d retrieved his own portion from the microwave, Pete stretched out beside you on the sofa, sitting on the cushion furthest from you with his feet perched on the edge of the coffee table. It was obvious that he was trying to keep his distance from you, and although he was trying to play it cool, it felt unnecessarily awkward. 

He was still reeling from the events of the previous month, and had been avoiding your calls as a result; not only that, but he’d restricted visitors from the studio during the band’s recording sessions. If you were being honest, you’d forgiven him immediately, but the kiss certainly hadn’t been forgotten. If anything, it had crossed your mind nearly every day. It had certainly made you re-evaluate your relationship with John. 

“Did you know Keith was doing coke again?” you asked cautiously, not including your boyfriend in the question out of fear; the truth might hurt more than you were prepared for. Pete saw John and Keith nearly every day, and would surely have noticed an issue before anyone else, you thought. Lately, you’d only seen John a few evenings a week because of your hectic work schedule. It would have been easy to miss the signs when all you wanted to do at the end of a shift was strip off your scrubs and climb into bed. 

“Did I know about it?” he laughed humourlessly. “Of course I knew. Keith is _always_ either drunk or high these days. It’s fucking things up in the studio, and Roger’s been furious about it. Most of us have, really.” Pete sipped at his beer, which he thought tasted rather sour. “He passed out during rehearsal earlier this week, and we didn’t quite know what to do about it.” 

“And…John?” you dared to ask. Nervously chewing on your lip, you tasted the salty tang of blood, but licked it away quickly. 

“He goes along with whatever Keith decides to do,” Pete shrugged. “Drugs, booze, what have you – you’ve heard about our hotel issues because of those two.” You felt a sharp twinge in your heart as his words further fuelled your fear; the girl who’d been asleep on your guest bed probably _had_ come back with John. It was no secret amongst your friend group that Keith’s wife had stayed with him despite several incidences of infidelity; if he had encouraged John to step over other boundaries, why not this one? 

You finished your meal in silence, content to listen to the sound of cars rushing past on the street below. Pete took your plate and set it in the sink along with his own. At the same time, you both glanced up at the clock above his door, which told you it was past 1:00am by now. 

“We should both go to bed,” you suggested gently. “I’m sure you still have things to work on, but you look…well, not to be rude, Pete, but you look bloody exhausted. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so tired.” He nodded, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. 

“Let me grab just some blankets for myself,” he requested, stepping into the bedroom to fish through the chest at the end of his bed that contained extra linens. He pulled out a quilt and a pillow, with a sheet to tuck into and over the sofa’s cushions. Joining him at the sofa, you helped to arrange the makeshift bed. 

“Pete, are you sure you wouldn’t rather I sleep out here?” you asked again. “After all, this is _your_ home. You’re much taller than me, and you’d be able to stretch out more on the bed.” He shook his head and gave you a soft smile; giving up his comfort for you had always been his way, right from the beginning. You remembered a time when you’d joined the boys on tour, and he’d elected to squeeze into a tiny motel room with both Roger and Keith so you’d be able to share with John. 

“Have a good rest,” he hummed, ending the discussion. “Sweet dreams.” You watched him a moment longer, cringing as you saw how he had to tuck his knees against his chest to fit properly on the sofa. _Maybe_ , you thought, glancing back into his bedroom, _if you stayed on one side of the bed, he’d have enough space to himself on the other side._

For some reason, though, you weren’t brave enough to suggest it. The memory of Pete kissing you in your kitchen held you back; what if he thought you were trying to start something? Maybe that’s what you wanted, though; clearly, John didn’t care enough about your relationship to keep it in his pants – maybe you _should_ let your feelings get the best of you. 

“Can I help you?” Pete mumbled, his eyes closed. “Kind of creepy to just stand there and watch me, don’t you think?” 

“Sorry,” you apologized, taking a step back. “I was just…thinking.” 

“What about?” He shifted beneath his blanket, trying to find a more comfortable position. Deciding that it was too warm for both the blanket and a shirt, he sat up and tugged his shirt off, balling it up and tossing it across the room. As dim as the light was in the sitting room, you could still see the way his skin hugged his ribs. 

“John cheated on me,” you confided, shivering as the image of the girl splayed out across the guest bed passed through your mind. “Some slag he met at the pub, no doubt.” 

“I thought you two had worked that out,” Pete said, puzzled. “John said he came clean after the tour, and that you were pissed but forgave him.” You furrowed your brows, not quite understanding what he was saying. 

“On tour?” you questioned, your voice faint. “I’m talking about tonight. He…on tour?” In your chest, your heart slowed, beating out a sluggish rhythm. This was the first you’d heard anything about any supposed unfaithfulness during their time overseas. Pete couldn’t be right about this, you told yourself. 

“Wait, he brought someone back to your flat tonight?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “Again?” 

“Pete, what the fuck do you mean, ‘again’?” you nearly shouted, startling him. “This is the first time John’s ever cheated on me, to my knowledge, unless you know something I don’t.” Pete’s face appeared paler than usual; he almost looked afraid. 

“I—I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew…” 

As much as you didn’t want it to be true, you trusted Pete not to lie about something this serious. With a wave of your hand, you motioned for him to budge up and make some space for you on the sofa. Embarrassed to be only partially clothed now, Pete pulled the blanket over his shoulders and wrapped it around himself. You seated yourself on the cushion he’d removed himself from and pulled your legs up to your chest, mirroring Pete’s posture. 

“I need you to tell me the truth,” you sighed. “All of it.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Pete whispered. “John should be the one to tell you.” 

“Please,” you begged. “I need it to be you.” His eyes flickered downwards, coming to a rest on your knees. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get a word out if he looked you in the eyes. 

“We’re going to need something to drink, then,” he posited, hauling himself up from the sofa. “Go get into something more comfortable, and I’ll meet you back here in two minutes.” Glancing down at your scrubs, you shrugged, deciding that Pete’s t-shirt would have to do. 

* * * * * 

An hour later, you were both _very_ drunk on a bottle of brandy Pete had been saving for a special occasion, though this wasn’t what he originally had in mind. Everything had come out, it seemed; John and Keith’s drug issues, the girls that they had all brought back to the hotels after shows, everything. The only thing keeping you from screaming right now was Pete’s presence. 

“For some reason,” you hiccupped, “I’d be less angry if he’d had loads and loads of girls. The fact that he had the same bird with him for the whole tour somehow makes it worse.” 

“Makes it feel like he replaced you, I’m sure,” Pete nodded, the liquor giving his speech a slight lilt. He’d had more than you, but held it better. “I know he never intended to hurt you, Y/N, and I’m sorry it has anyways.” 

You began to giggle, as though Pete had said something hilarious. Your emotions tended to become exaggerated when you’d had too much to drink, and tonight was no exception. Once you’d managed to stop laughing, your eyebrows drew together thoughtfully; an idea had formed in your mind. Despite your inebriated state, you could knew it wasn’t a good idea, but it had been on your mind for weeks – all it took for you to voice it was a bit of alcohol. 

“What are you thinking?” Pete asked softly, concerned by your sudden calmness. 

“Kiss me,” you said. As if to encourage him, your gaze snapped down to his lips. You tried to remember how his mouth felt against yours during the fleeting moments you’d spent in his arms. 

“What?” he choked out, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

“You heard me,” you frowned. “Kiss me. Right now. I dare you.” 

Pete leaned as far back into his cushion as he could, wishing he could sink through the sofa and disappear. The words he’d always wanted to hear from your lips had indeed been said, but under these circumstances, he wasn’t interested. 

“No.” His tone was firm, but flat. 

“No?” 

“No,” he shook his head. “Not like this.” Seeing your utterly confused expression, he elaborated with a single word: “John.” 

“If he’s going to go behind my back with other girls, what right does he have to dictate who I can and can’t kiss?” you argued indignantly, giving no thought to the words spilling from your mouth. “John gets to fuck whoever he pleases, and I just have to sit around and pretend I don’t want you to—” 

You stopped yourself, realizing that you were about to say something you really shouldn’t, whether it was the truth or not. Pete was John’s friend, _your_ friend; the last thing you wanted was to destroy those relationships with a comment you should have kept to yourself. 

“Pretend you don’t want me to what?” Pete asked, his voice dangerously quiet. When you didn’t answer, he raised his voice, his tone becoming almost aggressive, belligerent. “Y/N, what were you going to say?” 

“I…I can’t, Pete,” you shook your head, confused by your own emotions. You couldn’t take your words back, but you could make an excuse for having said them in the first place. “This shit with John, it’s all just happened, and I…can’t. I shouldn’t have said anything.” To your surprise, hot tears began to spill down your cheeks, and your breath caught in your chest. Everything you’d been holding in for the last hour – for the last month, really – was bubbling to the surface, all thanks to that half bottle of brandy Pete had willingly shared. 

Pete’s face fell when he realized you’d begun to cry. The exhausted, frustrated man beside you reached out and pulled you onto his lap, cradling you gently against his bony chest. He didn’t try anything like he had that afternoon John hadn’t been home. Instead, he was content to be your rock when the man who should have been there to comfort you was at home, sleeping off an evening of debauchery. 

“There now, love,” he cooed, rubbing your back with the palm of his hand. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry for sounding angry.” 

Eventually, you ran out of tears. The sobs that had wracked your body had worn you right out, to the point where you could barely stand up to make your way to Pete’s bedroom when you decided it really was time to go to bed. 

“Just let me carry you,” Pete whispered, shifting his arms beneath your weight. You squeaked in protest, but he lifted you off your feet as though you weighed no more than a feather. Despite his lanky appearance, Pete had gained a significant amount of muscle in the last year or so, and had no trouble hauling you from the sitting room to the bed. He set you down gently atop the blankets, drawing his hands back immediately so as not to let them linger on the bare skin of your legs. 

You yawned sleepily, blinking hard to try and keep your eyes open a bit longer. Pete stood beside the bed and watched you for a moment, waiting to see if there was anything else he could do for you. When your eyes fluttered shut and you rolled away from him without saying a word, he released the breath he had been holding onto. The last hour had taken a toll on you both. As he pulled the cord to turn the bedside lamp off, you reached out and took hold of his wrist. 

“Peter, stay with me tonight,” you requested, using his full name; it had been ages since anyone other than his mum called him that. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of your fingers against his skin. 

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea,” Pete murmured gently. “You’ll regret it in the morning, and we’ll be back to where we’ve been for the last month – ignoring each other.” His words stung you, but you held tight to his wrist when he attempted to pull away. 

“Just stay beside me,” you begged. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” With a sigh, he sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough for you to reach out and stroke the skin on his bare back – something you wanted so badly to do right now. 

“Why do you want me to stay?” 

“I’m lonely, Pete” you admitted. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting your eyes for only a moment before his gaze flicked back down to your fingers, which were still holding tightly to his wrist. 

“Me, too,” he whispered. “Constantly.” 

“Just for tonight, then,” you suggested, “let’s be lonely together.” After thinking on it silently for a minute or so, Pete nodded and clambered up onto the bed, tucking himself beneath the blankets beside you. 

“Lonely together,” he repeated, closing his eyes. 

* * * * * 

For the first time in months, maybe even a year, you both slept soundly, wrapped in the arms of someone that loved you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete has to decide how to deal with the situation at hand - John is his best friend, but Reader is the love of his life; Reader and John talk about the future of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of a weird perspective change in the last section, but bear with me. I swear it was intentional, and not just me shifting from second to third person accidentally because I'm a shitty writer. 
> 
> Also, whoops, my fingers slipped and I wrote a 5.7k chapter. There was no convenient place to split it, so I'll just drop this here. I have a limited readership for this fic anyways, so only like 6 people will be inconvenienced. Love you, bye!

The high-pitched ring of the telephone on Pete’s nightstand woke you both abruptly from your sleep, which had lasted well into the morning, surely due to the large volume of alcohol you’d imbibed the night before. With a heavy groan, Pete reached over you and snatched the receiver up, pulling the cord across your body and pressing the receiver to his ear. He fell back down on the bed, his head resting beside yours on the pillow.

“Hullo?” he yawned, squinting in the bright morning sunlight. You rolled towards him, allowing your eyes to roam over his bare chest. He’d turned you down the night before, which was probably for the best, but that didn’t mean the confusing feelings you had for him had disappeared with his rejection. His dark hair was dishevelled in a sweet, boyish way, and you longed to reach out and run your fingers through it. 

“Fuck, Pete,” John’s deep voice growled over the phone, “I’m losing my mind. Y/N’s work bag is sitting on the table here, but she wasn’t here when I woke up this morning.” He sounded concerned, you thought; it annoyed you. What right did he have to be concerned, when he’d been the reason you weren’t able to sleep in your own home? 

“John…” Pete sighed, meeting your eyes. “Is there any reason she might have left her things at home but not stayed the night?” The man on the other end of the line was silent, answering Pete’s question; he knew he’d made a mistake. Now, the question was, would he admit it to his best friend, or make up an excuse. 

“Well, um,” John mumbled, “Keith was over, he ended up sleeping here.” 

“That all?” Pete inquired, raising an eyebrow even though John couldn’t see him. “Keith used the guest bed, didn’t he? Moonie’s stayed the night a million times, Y/N wouldn’t have had an issue with that.” He waited for John to elaborate, watching you carefully to see your reaction. He held the phone between the two of you so you could hear the conversation as well. 

“We were a bit out of it,” John admitted. “And we...well, I invited a friend over, and she ended up staying longer than I’d expected.” You pressed your lips together, feeling warm tears pricking at the corners of your eyes; it was exactly as you’d thought, but the feeling of betrayal you’d felt last night at the mere possibility was a hundred times stronger now that you knew the truth. 

“So do you think she came home and saw what had happened, then?” Pete asked. His voice remained neutral, as he didn’t want to reveal that he knew the truth unless you gave him permission. 

“She was supposed to be home late,” John said, his voice breaking. “I let things go too far, for myself and for Keith, and if Y/N knows, she’ll never forgive me, Pete. You’ve got to help me.” Tears slipped down your cheeks, and you turned away from the man beside you, not wanting him to see you cry for the second time in 12 hours. 

Pete sighed heavily, tipping his head back on the pillow so he was staring up at the ceiling. He tucked a hand beneath his head and stretched, giving his body time to adjust to being awake. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? You were right there beside him. As one of John’s closest friends, he felt obligated to provide emotional support – but he loved you, and couldn’t bear the idea of hurting you any worse than you had been already. 

“Not sure what I can really do, mate,” Pete told him, trying not to sound too sympathetic for your sake. “I think you should tell her the truth, and figure things out the old-fashioned way. Talk to her.” You turned back to him, having wiped the tears from your face. The last thing you wanted was to talk this over with John; you were too angry for any kind of productive conversation. 

“Give her the phone then, will you?” John requested. Surprised, Pete began to speak, to pretend you weren’t there beside him, but John knew better. “Pete, there’s nowhere else she would have gone. Just give her the phone, please. For me.” Pete reached out and put a hand on your arm, his silent way of asking if this was something you were ready for. After a long pause, you nodded, and accepted the phone from him. 

“I’m here,” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “Don’t talk, it will make things much worse.” 

“Okay,” your boyfriend gulped, nodding on the other end of the line. You took a deep breath before you began, locking eyes with Pete. His steely blue gaze willed you to stand your ground and confront the issue. 

“I came home last night to find you passed out, high on coke, after you _promised_ me you were done with that shit,” you said firmly. “You could have fucking died, and no one would have been there to help you, John. And Keith? He could have died, too.” John remained quiet, honouring your request, even though he wanted to give an explanation; he knew he was in the wrong, but couldn’t help feeling the need to speak up for Keith. You continued, your volume increasing as you became angrier. 

“If it was only the drugs, I might not be so upset, but to find some floozy half-naked in our flat, with your hickey on her fucking throat, John?” Your voice shook with rage, recalling what Pete had told you about the groupie John had taken up with on tour. “And don’t you dare tell me she’s the first girl you’ve been with behind my back, because I think we both know that’s a lie.” John’s breaths came in ragged gasps on the other line, and you felt no remorse for him. He’d dug his own grave, and deserved to lie in it; his actions had consequences. 

You were silent for a full minute, trying to gather your thoughts. It didn’t make sense to keep yelling at him over the phone. Although you were rightfully angry, it didn’t seem appropriate to throw a fit in front of Pete. Now that John knew you were safe, and that you hadn’t died in a ditch on your way home from work last night, he had all you were willing to give at this time. 

“I’ll be home later this afternoon, once I’ve taken some time to cool off,” you seethed quietly, “and there had better not be anything or _anyone_ that doesn’t belong in our flat when I arrive.” John cleared his throat, waiting a while before responding. 

“I’ll see you in a bit,” he said, his voice only a fraction of the strength it typically had. He sounded like a scared little boy, and you didn’t blame him. It wasn’t often that you were angry, and never had you been in a fight like this. 

For the most part, your relationship had been a calm affair, with rows limited to subjects such as his spending, which you found frivolous, or your competing work schedules, which left little time for you to spend together, other than lying beside each other, asleep at night. After such a serious indiscretion on John’s part, this could very well be the end of what you’d hoped was the last relationship you’d ever be in, and that was a scary thought for both of you. As you hung up the phone, though, you felt a twinge of guilt at what you’d asked of Pete the night before. John may have cheated, but in a way, you felt that you’d been unfaithful as well, even if the deed hadn’t occurred. 

Replacing the phone in its cradle, you let out a long breath. Pete reached for a box of cigarettes, which sat on the table to the left of his side of the bed, and took out two, one for each of you. The memory of your smoking days screeched behind your eyes, willing you to accept a cigarette against your better judgement. You told yourself that having just one couldn’t possibly tempt you into renewing your nicotine habit; at least, you hoped it wouldn’t. 

“These’ll kill you,” you reminded him, placing the filter between your lips. “Haven’t you heard that, Pete?” He nodded, flicking the lid of his lighter open. The end of his cigarette glowed orange as he inhaled. 

“If, by some miracle, I survive the next ten years, I’ll gladly succumb to lung disease,” he mumbled, holding the flame to the tip of the cigarette in your mouth. “If I don’t start getting a decent sleep more than once a month, I’m sure the psychosis will do me in one of these days.” You sucked in a long breath, and blew a cloud of smoke from both your nostrils, watching it rise toward the ceiling above you. It had been ages since you’d smoked, even though John and all his friends had clung to the habit. Within a few seconds, the soothing buzz of the nicotine had settled in your brain, relaxing you slightly. 

“I hope you’ve got more of these,” you expressed, pinching the cigarette between your thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to need it.” You tapped it against the ashtray on the bedside table, and returned it to your mouth. Pete passed you his own cigarette, and watched with amusement as you took a drag from both at the same time. 

“How about something a little stronger?” he suggested with a sly grin, opening the drawer in his bedside table. From it, he plucked a plastic bag with a hand-rolled joint inside. Your eyes opened wide as you felt a rush of memories flow through your mind. You’d lit up with John and his pals more times than you cared to admit; it was your little secret, one you’d never shared with any of your coworkers. Wanting nothing more to trade in the heavy pit of anger in your belly for the mellow warmth of a high, you gave Pete an eager nod. 

“When in Rome,” you smiled, pressing the lit ends of both cigarettes against the bottom of the ashtray. You wouldn’t be needing those anymore. 

* * * * * 

When you arrived home later that afternoon, you were still riding on the tail end of your high, but had recovered to the point where you felt safe to drive. John was waiting for you, wringing his hands as he sat on the sofa in the sitting room. He stood up as soon as he heard your key turn in the lock, and watched as you hung your coat up on the hook behind the door. He took note that you had borrowed a shirt from Pete, and had thrown your scrub pants on because there was no way you’d have been able to fit into any of Pete’s trousers. 

“I need to shower and change into something else,” you told him, your eyes flickering around the room. There was no sign of the shenanigans from the previous night, much to your relief. “Keith made it home alright?” 

“Drove him there meself this morning,” he nodded sullenly. “Washed the sheets and made the beds as well.” You hummed in affirmation, choosing not to make eye contact. Upon inspection in the rearview mirror of your own vehicle, you’d realized that your eyes had taken on the red glaze common to pot smokers; it hardly seemed fair for you to get angry with John for using illegal drugs if you were doing them as well, so you decided to do your best to avoid the subject. 

“Thank you,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “See you in a bit.” John sat back down and leaned his head against the wall as soon as the door to the toilet had closed behind you. Stripping out of your borrowed shirt and dirty work trousers, you stepped under the scalding-hot stream of water and pressed your hands to the wall. Droplets pounded against the bare skin of your back, hot enough to turn your skin an angry red. The pain barely registered in your brain, though; the moment you’d walked through the front door, you’d gone completely numb. This flat, which had served as a safe space for you ever since you’d started seeing John, now seemed foreign, unclean. 

The water had gone cold by the time you decided to get out. After wringing the water from your hair, you piled your towel atop your head like a turban and wrapped yourself in your housecoat, which hung from a hook on the back of the door. John was still seated on the couch, and seemingly hadn’t moved. He didn’t look up at you, just allowed you to move around in peace as you found a clean shirt and a pair of jeans. You brushed your hair and put it up in a messy bun, feeling that you didn’t have the energy required to to blow-dry or do anything fancy with it. After all, you would just be spending the next few hours at home with a man you could barely bring yourself to look at. 

“Well, let’s hear it, then,” you said finally, taking a seat on the far end of the sofa, as far from John as you could be. “What the hell happened, John?” He took a long breath before he began to speak, and glanced at the ceiling as though he were sending up a silent prayer. 

“I fucked up,” he said first, turning to look at you. His eyes were already watery, and you could tell from the red splotches on his forehead that he’d been crying. “I got overwhelmed with all the shit that goes into organizing the tour, and I didn’t think I could handle things on my own, so…” 

“So?” you repeated, wanting him to continue; there was no way you could sustain yourself at this high of an emotional level all afternoon. 

“So Keith brought over some coke, and we got high,” he shrugged, acknowledging his actions. “It was completely stupid. I’ve been exhausted, and all I wanted was to sleep.” He bowed his head, embarrassed by having to admit his inability to cope without using again. 

“You should have said something,” you sighed, frustrated. “I could have taken time off work, taken you to talk to someone about how you were feeling.” There were a thousand things he could have done instead of hard drugs, but he had succumbed to the temptations of the rock ‘n roll lifestyle most of his mates had been caught up in. Pete had been into drugs for a time, you knew, and still struggled with his dependency on alcohol to make it through difficult gigs. That felt better than cocaine to you, though. Being a nurse, you’d seen patients who had OD’d, and had no interest in having John come in on a gurney, dead to the world. 

“I should’ve,” he agreed solemnly. “I relied on what other people could offer instead of turning to what I have right here in front of me.” This comment seemed directed towards the other issue at hand, the thing you were most angry about. Seeing that you clearly had something to say, John was quiet, watching you carefully. 

“I knew when I met you that we would never have the kind of relationship a ‘normal’ couple does,” you began, struggling to keep your voice even. “I don’t think I had any misconceptions about _that_. I loved you for who you were: an incredibly talented musician, who had the opportunity to play your music for the masses. I knew you’d travel a lot, that we’d often be apart, even on opposite sides of the world – and I accepted that. 

“I accepted the wild parties, even though they weren’t necessarily something I enjoyed. I accepted the booze because everyone else was doing it, and why shouldn’t you? I even accepted the coke, the speed, uppers and downers, what have you, for a time – because I knew that touring was hard on you, and that the environment you were in was a pressure I had no way of understanding. I accepted _everything_ , John, with one expectation: that you’d come home to _me_.” 

A single tear rolled down your cheek, and you made no move to wipe it away. Your arms were crossed over your chest, across your heart, which was beating so hard you thought it might leap right out of your mouth and onto the floor. It would wriggle around, weeping tears of blood onto the hardwood, and then maybe John would understand the magnitude of what he’d done. 

“I need you to be completely honest with me, John,” you choked out, turning toward him. You met his eyes with a look so sharp he nearly had to look away. Never before had he felt so ashamed, so angry with himself. “I need to know how many times this has happened. How many girls have you been with, besides me? On tour, in our home, anywhere.” You took a deep breath, willing yourself to hold it together for one last sentence. “If you can’t tell me the truth, all of it, then you and I are finished.” 

John’s face fell into his hands, and he wept silently in front of you, his shoulders shaking. In any other circumstance, you would have wrapped your arms around him, comforted him, but the metallic taste of anger (and probably blood) in your mouth prevented you from moving an inch. This was of his own doing, and he’d have to face the consequences. 

It was another five minutes before he had composed himself enough to talk. He excused himself to the toilet to wipe his eyes and blow his nose, the sound trumpeting through the closed door. He splashed cold water on his face, towelled it off, and returned to the sofa, resting his back against the arm of it and facing you. 

“Twice,” he said firmly, clenching his teeth after he spoke, as though to prevent the evil admission from coming back into his body. “Only twice, I swear to God.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head, wishing that he could take back his actions from the previous night. “That girl yesterday, she was nothing. Some bird Keith and I met at the pub. We were high, and I made a mistake.” 

“And the other?” you asked, your voice so quiet John barely heard it. 

“On tour,” he murmured. “A groupie from Detroit.” You waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. From what Pete had told you, she had been with them the entire tour. That felt different than a one-night stand to you, and you wanted to hear his excuse for having what was essentially a second girlfriend for the six weeks they’d been in America. 

“That was it, then? You met her in Detroit, and moved on?” you questioned, your voice rising in pitch. 

“Love, I don’t know why you want to hear this,” John huffed in exasperation. “It won’t change what happened.” “I said _everything_ , John,” you snapped. “I’m trying to figure out why you thought it such a brilliant idea to pick up some girl and have her tag along on the tour bus! I was waiting at home for you, goddammit. I was right fucking here, sitting in our flat, wishing I could be beside you instead of alone in our bed – yet you were getting drunk every night, having a riot with your mates, and shagging another woman!” You were screaming now, absolutely certain the neighbours could hear you, but not caring a fig about it. 

“She meant NOTHING to me, Y/N!” John responded, raising his own voice to match your volume. “I came home to YOU, and haven’t thought about her for even a second since the moment I left her behind in San Francisco.” He had admitted it now, that she had tagged along for the entire tour. You’d known it already, but it still stung monumentally to hear it from him. A heavy silence hung in the air now that the two of you had done a bit of shouting – no more felt necessary. 

“Did she really mean nothing?” you asked after a minute, biting your lip. “I can almost bear the idea that you were lonely, and needed a body beside you for the night, but if it was something else…” 

“It was just sex,” John promised, moving towards you and placing a hand on your knee. You didn’t draw back or push him away, even though the thought of him touching you felt repulsive at the moment. “I swear to you, Y/N, it was just sex. I never, for a single moment, felt even a fraction of what I feel for you. I _love_ you, and you know that.” You sniffed, trying to keep your nose from running, but had to resort to wiping it across the sleeve of your jumper. 

This, at least, was a small mercy – his promise that he hadn’t fallen for her. You _did_ know that he loved you, that was no secret. You’d never doubted it before last night. John was a thoughtful partner, despite his occasional moments of forgetfulness, and did so much to remind you that he was thinking of you, even when he was away. 

Every time he went on tour, he always went to the florist before leaving and arranged to have flowers delivered to you weekly, with little notes he’d handwritten ahead of time. He remembered your birthday, your anniversary, and always made reservations at the restaurant the two of you loved. He was affectionate and kind, always told you how beautiful and intelligent and kind he thought you were. Despite the occasional row, things had been good – great, even – when he was home. The news of his infidelity was truly a shock to you, one that had rocked your beliefs about the state of your relationship. 

“You never loved her?” you asked, your eyes boring into blue ones. Like two of his bandmates, John’s eyes were a soft, bright blue, often illuminated by his crooked smile. Now, though, they were dark, remorseful. 

“Never,” he told you, reaching for your hand. “Not for a minute. It’s always been you.” 

“Did you ever tell her you loved her?” you croaked, your voice faltering. Shame flickered across his face, only for a moment, but long enough to tell you what you needed to know. Before he could try to justify himself, or explain why he’d done it, you said the words you knew would hurt him more than anything else: 

“I kissed Pete.” 

As if a switch in his brain had been turned off, any light that had previously been in his eyes died. His face became a mask, defeat being the only expression he could muster. If he was angry with you, if he felt betrayed, he didn’t say it. John breathed heavily through his mouth, trying to keep his head above the cold, heavy water his mind felt it was swimming through. 

“It happened in the kitchen, a few weeks ago, before the dinner party,” you continued, nonchalantly, as though this was the most mundane conversation you could be having. “I asked him to kiss me again last night, but he said no, because he’s your best friend.” John nodded, hearing your words but barely processing them. 

You stood from the sofa and stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Robotically, John followed, reaching up and retrieving two cups from the top shelf. You had never been able to get the cups yourself, because of your height (or lack thereof), and he had always taken great delight in bringing them down for you, his little love. Now, though, he found no joy in the task, doing it out of duty and the need for a strong cuppa. 

“Do you love him?” he asked softly, watching your hands as you filled the kettle with water from the tap. 

“I think so, yes,” you admitted, turning the knob on the stove to start up the gas range. The metallic click of the igniter continued, until the gas lit with a soft _whoosh_. The orange-blue flames flickered beneath the kettle, and both you and John watched it mindlessly for a minute. 

“He’s always loved you,” John said matter-of-factly, his voice devoid of his own feelings on the matter. “Ever since he met you. He never said anything to me, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You’ve always had a connection, you two.” 

You looked up at your boyfriend, who had settled his back against the counter, just a few inches from you. His thumbs were tucked into the pockets of his trousers. If anyone were to walk into the kitchen right now, nothing would seem amiss - yet here you were, acknowledging the demise of your future together. 

“Are you angry?” you wondered, glancing up at him. “I’d understand if you were. I kissed your best mate, and I shouldn’t have.” John hummed softly, trying to decide how to respond. Your words had been a surprise, had been devastating for him in the moment, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him. 

You and Pete were a much better match than the two of you. You were both spiritual people, always searching for meaning in the world. You read the same books, held similar political beliefs, and shared all your new vinyl once you’d listened to them yourself. Every time John dragged you to a party, you and Pete would hole yourselves up in a corner, and spend the evening discussing whatever had been on your minds lately, while John and Keith got up to their own shenanigans. John knew you in an intimate way that Pete had never had access to, but if he was being honest with himself, John knew that his best friend would probably bring out the best in you in a way he never could. 

“I’m not angry, no,” John shook his head. “Just sad, I think, because I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” you whispered. “I just…don't think we can come back from this. It can’t ever be the same now.” 

"I know." 

You had both found comfort in someone else, and neither of you would be able to separate that when you thought about each other. The only option, really, was for things to end, and you both knew it in your hearts. 

“I’m sorry for hurting you, Y/N,” he apologized. “The last thing I want in this world is to have broken your heart, but I’ve done it, and I’m so sorry.” For the first time that day, you allowed yourself to be swept into his arms. Unable to contain your feelings any longer, you wept against John’s shirt, and he held you against him, comforting you for what would likely be the last time. He rested his chin on your head and hummed, rocking you gently back and forth. 

* * * * * 

Pete knocked timidly on the door of John’s and Y/N’s flat, fiddling nervously with one of his rings as he waited for someone to answer. To his dismay, the door swung open to reveal John, whose expression was not one of happiness. Without a word, he stepped back, allowing Pete to enter the sitting room. Y/N had two suitcases packed and ready to go, waiting beside the sofa. 

“She’s just getting her toothbrush and a few other things, I think,” John mumbled, tucking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Be here in a second, I’m sure.” Pete nodded, staring straight ahead at the collection of photos hanging from the far wall. A large, framed photo of John and Y/N was in the centre, with smaller pictures of Pete and John, the whole band, John and his mother, Y/N’s family, etc. surrounding it. The silence was nearly unbearable, and it took much discipline for Pete to not run back down to his car. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Pete said finally, willing himself to meet his friend’s eyes. Y/N hadn’t said much on the phone when she’d called, but she _had_ told him that John knew about their kiss. He knew it wasn’t his fault that his friend’s relationship was over, but he couldn’t help feeling responsible – this apology was all he could offer to John. 

“Don’t be,” John said gruffly, doing his best to seem unfazed by his friend’s awkward apology. If Pete didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that John didn’t care about the end of things between him and Y/N. Really, though, he was putting up a wall to protect himself until he was alone. Pete made a note to call Roger, ask him to check in on John in a few hours to make sure he hadn’t drunk himself to the point of unconsciousness. 

“Just…take care of her. If anyone can, it’s you,” John said suddenly, clapping a hand on Pete’s shoulder, and extending the other to shake his hand. Astounded and slightly concerned that John was about to throttle him, Pete glanced up at his friend like a deer in headlights. “Loosen up, Pete,” John frowned, grasping Pete’s hand in his own. “I love her, and I want her to be with someone who loves her enough to keep his cock to himself. So don’t fuck it up, or I _will_ have to kill you.” Pete nodded and allowed himself to relax. John had always been a reasonable man, unlike their other bandmates, and if this had to have happened between any of them, he was glad it had been John. 

Y/N appeared in the sitting room, hauling a small box of personal items. Her heart stopped for a moment when she saw John’s serious expression, and his hand on Pete’s shoulder, but she felt she could breathe again when a soft smile spread over both men’s faces. They’d been friends for more than a decade, and weren’t about to let a girl mess that up, even a girl like Y/N. 

“Ready to go, Pete?” she spoke up, balancing the box on her hip. Pete nodded, reaching out to grab the handles of her suitcases. 

“I’ve got the car pulled around the front of the building,” he informed her. “The lift is working this week, thank god.” She walked to the door, reaching down to the shoe rack to grab a pair of heels she’d neglected to pack, and placed them into the box she was carrying. John pulled her coat down from the hook behind the door and handed it to her gently. 

“You can come whenever you like to get the rest of your things,” John said, staring at his shoes. “I can ask Keith and Roger to help move your furniture, once you’ve found a new flat for it all to fit into.” She nodded appreciatively, glad that he wasn’t putting up a fuss about her decision to leave so soon. 

Pete had offered to let her stay with him temporarily, and she’d agreed on the condition that he help her find a place of her own. Although they’d finally confessed their feelings for each other, they still needed time to discuss their relationship– they were in no place emotionally to even think about living together just yet. 

“Thank you, John, for everything,” Y/N said quietly, looking up at the man who had been her partner for more than two years. Pete reached for the door handle and moved to excuse himself. It only seemed appropriate to give his friends time to say their farewells in private. He hauled the suitcases behind him and stepped into the lift, frowning at how long the silly thing took to go down two bloody floors. Once he’d made it out the front door, he opened the boot of the car and lifted the surprisingly light cases into it, breathing a sigh of relief when they both fit. The back seat was crammed full of gear he’d neglected to unload and bring into his own flat the night before, covered up with blankets to prevent any curious eyes from wanting to steal them. 

He started the car and leaned back in his seat, waiting patiently for Y/N to come down. It felt unbelievable to him that only yesterday, things between the two of them had been so tense, uncertain. His thoughts wandered for a while, from Y/N to his friendship with John, to the impending tour. If the past day had felt hectic, it was nothing compared to the stress of the logistics involved in pulling off an overseas tour. He had worked himself nearly to the point of heart palpitations by the time Y/N appeared at the passenger side window. 

She pulled the door closed behind her and sat quietly for a minute before reaching over and taking Pete’s hand. Running her fingers over Pete’s knuckles, she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss against it. 

“Thanks again for coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly. “It’s been a long day, and I just want to lie down somewhere familiar and safe.” 

“I can make that happen,” Pete smiled, meeting her eyes. “You know you can trust me, right? Like I said earlier, I’ll always take care of you.” 

“I know,” she nodded. “Let’s just go home, alright? Have some food, watch some trash telly, drink a beer or four.” Pete laced his fingers through hers and rested their hands on the gear shift. He wanted to lean over and kiss her, but that was for another time. Right now, Y/N just needed a hand to hold. 

“Anything for you, love.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll end it there, because I'm happy with where I'm leaving things. Imagine as you will what the future holds for Pete and Reader, but know that he and John are still BFFs - no girl can tear that friendship apart.


End file.
